


Makes Perfect

by tanyart



Series: Balancing Act [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Dragon Age
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, M/M, Non-Explicit, fun with magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:52:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanyart/pseuds/tanyart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Practice and sense. (Dragon Age AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Makes Perfect

**Author's Note:**

> Obligatory AU pseudo-smut nonsense.

“Malik,” Altair warned, and shivered when Malik’s hand ran down his arm despite how warm the touch was through his thin shirt.

He did not regret pushing Malik to learn the healing incantations from Dabir. Malik had been willing to study a few spells but it soon became apparent that the mage’s skill fell a little short when it came to the healing arts.  By then end of the month, he could only manage a small health regenerating spell that was hardly worth the energy he spent to cast it.  Dabir had been a patient teacher, but when Malik had to cast three spells to match one of his, it was back to relying on potions whenever Dabir could not accompany them. 

Never one to give up, Malik had insisted that he practiced on Altair, which was admirable, but it wasn’t often Altair had to admit that some things were a lost cause—especially if that thing in particular involved being cornered against the wall with a teasing mage in his lap.

“Hold still,” Malik ordered, kneading the large bruise over Altair’s shoulder from a recent battle.  Feeling Altair wince, he smirked.  “You’re still hurting. One more time then.”

Altair did not mind being healed through magic.  It was always a pleasant sensation no matter who did it, but Malik had the tendency to throw out his healing incantations like his lightning spells, swift and jolting, a rapid shot of energy that sent Altair’s head buzzing and his heart beating fast. 

“You just used it,” Altair reminded, struggling to sit up from his slumped position.

Malik smiled, and Altair couldn’t help but feel like he had walked straight into a trap, though he couldn’t imagine how much  _more_  trapped he could be at the moment.  Leaning over him, Malik rested his forehead against Altair’s, the dried blood from a cut over his temple gritty between their skin.

“And what do you propose we do while we wait?” the mage asked, discarding Altair’s reply by tilting his head to kiss him, opened mouthed and demanding.

“How about-“ Altair tried, speaking clumsily as Malik nipped his bottom lip. “How about you— get  _off_ me and let me grab a potion instead? Then we wouldn’t have to wa- _ait_ —”

Malik lifted his hand from Altair’s breeches, ignoring him as he bucked up at the missed pressure.  “You said I could practice.”

“You aren’t practicing! You’re s—that’s  _not_  what you’re doing,” Altair gasped as Malik’s weight settled over him, grinding down.  He rolled back his head with a thump against the wall and received an answering thud from whoever was staying in the next room over; Rauf was probably going to be in a foul mood in the morning.

 With a grunt, Altair hooked his leg over Malik’s waist, using the mage’s weight as leverage to flip him over.  Malik went down with little resistance and Altair looked down at him suspiciously, bracing his hands at either side, and used his knee to press gently between Malik’s legs.  To his surprise, Malik let out a quiet moan and raked his hand over Altair’s shirt, stretching the fabric until Altair relented and lowered his mouth over Malik’s neck, biting and sucking at the pulsing vein.  He grabbed at the short strands of hair, pulling roughly, wanting Malik to angle his head.

“Really, Altair,” Malik scoffed, complying with a lofty tilt, “Do you think me that easy?”

His hand had wormed its way under Altair’s shirt and the rogue realized too late that it wasn’t the sound of threads creaking and ripping under strain, but the soft crackle of static from Malik’s fingertips.  Altair jerked up, unsure for a wild moment if it was a healing spell or lightning attack. He was allowed to inhale, once, before Malik pressed his palm against the bruise on Altair’s shoulder and pushed, making it throb.  Altair thought he saw Malik’s eyes flash green, but it was only the bright glow coming from his hand, sending out a jolt that nearly made him lose his balance.

 There was pain, white-hot and burning, and then a short burst of energy that was neither soothing nor calming. Altair groaned, falling forward to meet Malik’s frantic kisses.  It was not often Malik lost himself within casting, and without the distraction of battle, the spell fueled their arousal, adding to the thrill of simply touching and hearing the hitches in their panting.

Malik shuddered, the soft light from his hand dimming.  Altair could feel the mage’s grin and his hand sliding down his stomach, fingertips still charged with a hint of electricity.  Malik did not even have to go further, the sensation traveling faster than his hand.  Rolling his hips, Altair bit into the juncture of Malik’s neck and jaw until a wave of pleasure crashed into him, borne out of energy and magic and the feel of Malik’s body under his.

When it all faded with the glow of Malik’s hand, Altair let his lips linger over the mage’s cheek, tongue flicking out to taste the damp corner of his mouth, before he sat up.  A little dazed, he hooked two fingers over the collar of his shirt, pulling it down to expose his shoulder.  Though significantly less pronounced, the bruise was still an off shade of blue and a bit stiff when Altair shrugged.

Malik huffed in disappointment. 

“Maybe if you hadn’t been doing other things while casting,” Altair suggested, earning a foot in his stomach, and because it was Malik, there was little mercy in the kick.  The air left his lungs and he fell back, clutching his midsection.  Malik followed after, kneeling over him and appraising the new bootprint on his shirt.

“For your sake, I hope that doesn’t bruise,” Malik said, lifting it with a smirk. “Or perhaps another practice section is in order.”

Cursing, Altair scrambled upwards, throwing himself against Malik hard enough that they hit the wall together—Maker damn the person who came knocking to complain.  He pinned the mage down, scowling.

“No more practicing,” he said flatly and refused move until Malik agreed, drawing him in with a grin and a promise to use the health potions after they were through.


End file.
